Authors: Richard Blanchard
Snow Blind (14 page)
My hand brushes real fur; how many foxes were killed in the making of that coat? The lady pushes a stroller imperiously through the heart of our group. The baby girl is flat out asleep; I would never have dragged Ethan around this late at that age.
The stags hunt for a suitable bar, each with very different visions of success. Some are passed for no good reason, except maybe the absence of under-dressed women. We are getting nowhere. An ornate toyshop stretches their opening hours to take a last sale. The evening promenade of the well-heeled elite is ending. The night shift of youth is starting. Ethan would love to be here now, but not with this jaded crew.
“What about this one? It does cocktails.” I suggest somewhere that has a chance, as they will think there will be women in it. Robert has the upper hand, so despite our lunchtime bust-up he must be humoured. We can't really see into the smart looking Chaise-Longue bar as it has its entrance four steps below our feet.
“Okay Jules, I am sure you just want to get your lips wrapped around a Black Russian. Let's see whether the talent is up to scratch in there.” He accepts my suggestion with smug sexual allusion. Shoulders are shrugged all around and I score a petty victory.
We enter the calming presence of the lounge bar. For the first time there is a collective pause for breath. Chris and Johnny are the first to slump in the chairs, awaiting beer. The gloomy bar only holds two couples posted in different corners and a group of three women at the bar. The male faces around me seem confused. Maybe we can take a different path.
I try to extend my influence further while it is becalmed. “Should we put a kitty together to cover our drinks bill, say fifty Euros each?”
“Great idea babe, it will save a lot of messing.” Dan is the only rubber stamp I need in this context, he seems glad of something to keep us together. I squeeze the gathered money into a small coin purse I have.
Robert moves behind me, leaning over my shoulder as I await the drinks order. His lips are close to my ear. I feel something stir in his trousers; he holds my right arm. He speaks collusively. “Is that a kitty or a pussy you have there? Maybe I could stroke it later?” I despise this creep.
I turn to face him while he is up close, beaming a false, broad smile. I spit through clenched teeth. “Piss off you pervert. The only thing you will get to stroke later is your own member.” I struck a good tone but member was too tame, my mouth would not give him the pleasure of using another word. Max and Steve converse exclusively at the bar so Robert takes his Jack Daniels and Coke towards them. Dan sits next to me opposite the others.
“How is it going babe? I know you have had a tough day with him, but we are alright aren't we?” Dan seeks assurance.
“Of course. It's great to be here with you. I wanted to spend some quality time with you before you were wed.” I lie. “We must get a chance to talk properly, get some perspective on the past,” I flush with anxiety as I try to set up my needed conversation.
“I would like that, what about now, we could⦔ Dan tails off as Robert comes back from the bar looking bored. He will allow no-one time off from their duty to entertain him. “I am staying at Mere for the wedding, anyone fancy a night out next Friday?”
“I will meet you there,” Steve invites himself.
“No, no, I was thinking of a crowd of us having a night out in Manchester or chasing young fillies around Knutsford. Come on boys.” Robert jerkily drinks his whisky in disgust at the lack of a convincing response. Everyone else seems to have a life Robert.
“I will probably be busy mate, but will let you know,” Dan skirts the issue. He seems to definitely handle him better than he used to.
“Are you not taking your girlfriend to the wedding? Won't you want to take her out?” I enquire.
“What, Samantha my fuck buddy? No chance. She is staying well away so that the mouse can come out to play.” He empties his glass.
“Come on girls, finish your drinks, let's get going to somewhere with some action.” For a few moments the group had let go; it held no animosity or desire to shame. But every man now takes his drink and dispenses with it. Tension rises again.
Robert wanders to the bar. “And where are you girls headed?”
The three girls turn their heads to face him, revealing their synchronised straw drinking. All three are beautiful; they have no need to explain themselves to him so no reply is offered.
“Cat got your tongues?” Well-done sisters.
I am the last to step outside. I just see Robert's back as he strides up the street. A pedestrian area opens up ahead and a river gushes underneath us. Robert pulls the group onwards to the main town square. When I catch up they are in a queue of fifteen people, mostly women, trying to get into the Café Blanche. Music and heat escape with each departing group from its ornate pink metal-framed doors.
We shuffle forward. The club thumps. I am in no hurry to get in, although it doesn't take long. Inside my men now seem meek and mild. They seem to be lustily appraising female limbs around us.
I see Robert at the bar with Dan. He is mouthing, “Where's our pussy?” but knows I can't possibly hear him over the intense French rap. He stands on the bar footrest reaching back towards me to get the money. Robert the Supreme Being is back, as he bounces stupidly like an ape.
We ascend the spiral staircase to the source of the music on the first floor. I inadvertently brush my white-wine spritzer onto the midriff of an olive-skinned girl as I reach the top step, causing her to jump. I apologise and she ignores me. The boys are in a semi-circle in front of me: Robert, Max, Dan and Steve all seem to receive a cheap thrill from my contact.
A DJ stands behind a small pedestal, one headphone clutched to an ear, listening to his own re-mix. A sign advertising himself as Josef hangs over his head. A group of about twenty people bump along lazily to his current groove.
I re-imagine old school discos with spotty boys prowling around without the mettle to ask me to dance. I feel the tension of exclusion felt by these even weaker men. They try to project attitude to the feminine beauty in front of them. They try to feign disinterest before they can be disregarded. Four of these boys are married, one is to be betrothed in seven days' time and one is a creepy megalomaniac. Yet all stare with intent at the dance floor, imagining improbable liaisons. There is no approval for them here, the throng boogie on regardless. I feel a trace of pity for them. I am cheapened by my presence here.
Robert must think that to be alpha-male he has to break rank. He must conquer womanhood. He looks for no support; but unleashes himself on the cheapest smuttiest looking pair of girls. They laugh at his first approach, whispering to each other as he dances alone. They can mock so much; his 1980s' haircut, his lack of style. He makes it so easy for them to ridicule him with his dancing. I hope to witness rejection but no, they are straight-faced now and accept his intrusion. The youngest and prettiest one dances with him. The other moves aside. This is not right.
He conquered without a word; he put himself out there, having chosen his prey well. His armoury was confidence and the smell of money. Maybe to gold-diggers he fits an acceptable profile: no style but branded by Gucci loafers and his top-of-the-range Cartier watch. He pushes himself towards her ear as he had done with me earlier, slithering his hands onto her waist. She pushes her chin up to accept his kiss on her neck. I hate this woman; she has kept the merry-go-round turning, offering comfort to the other losers.
I had been staring so hard at Robert that I missed the shift of focus. The other stags are reminded of their libidos. Chris is smiling vacantly just thrilled to be near a woman. Max is thinking, maybe she might succumb. Steve is salivating. Even Johnny seems to have a lump in his trousers. They are seeing me as meat now. They all want something. Is it me or is every eye looking towards my breasts; I feel cheap for having any cleavage on show. Could Ethan be a part of this brotherhood? I feel sick in my throat.
Dan should stand apart. I know he isn't like this but he just looks meekly towards me.
“Would you like to dance?” Max pushes his hand into mine and sneaks an arm over my shoulder. His tone is smooth. I shake my head.
“Come on Jules,” he tries again. I look to Dan in obvious discomfort.
Through his inaction I now see no difference for his years. He is strikingly the same; without the means to react, to impose himself. Say something Dan. Show me that you are ready to take this step forward. But I know this face. He looks wistful, dreaming that it will be better tomorrow so that he doesn't have to confront today. How will I be able to reach this boy?
“I have to go, I am not well.” I push my glass into Max's expectant hand and turn back towards the staircase to leave alone. I am afraid for Dan.
Bepe is running and laughing through verdant hills; giggling prey to his father's mock chase. He runs toward the magic windmill. Each step shudders his body, his young locked knees creating halting progress. He turns his head and squeals as the chase seems to be ending, but every time his father allows him to elude his sweeping capture. The Teletubbies play their part, distracting Dan in this game of “Run Away”. Bepe finds La La and hides behind her rotund belly for a few moments, before darting off in another direction. Pollen, wet earth and grass invade Dan's nostrils as he determines to finally make a real capture. “Time for tubby bye-bye, Time for tubby bye-bye” lilts the echoing announcement. Bepe runs towards Po, tripping her up with one foot hooked around her ankle; she cries as she falls. He shoots his Scooby Doo gun at Dipsy and Tinky Winky; they give a Teletubby shriek as they both get jammed trying to escape down the same rabbit hole. Bepe is now pistolwhipping the fallen Po with no remorse as he tries to get to his feet. All four make a desperate escape underground as the baby sun looks down scornfully.
Bepe leads Daniel to a picture-perfect picnic on one of the many hillsides. A tartan blanket is spread out with sandwiches, jelly and cake in abundance. Bepe tucks into the strawberry jelly first, using his hands. Splashes of jelly stick to his face and wobble. Daniel takes egg sandwiches from the platter in front of him. As he chews he gets a shooting pain in his mouth. He looks down to his orange plastic plate and sees two of his own incisors lying on the bread. Blood lines his bite from the sandwich. He takes another bite in defiance but the bread, mayonnaise and hard-boiled egg mix with three molars and two front teeth in his mouth. As he can't swallow safely he spits the bloody contents of his mouth onto the manicured grass; blood spatters onto a nearby daisy. Daniel reaches for Bepe with blood covering his hands, his mouth devoid of teeth and dripping with blood enriched saliva. He starts to wipe the jelly from Bepe's face but only spreads the bloody mess. “Diddy hurt, get plaster,” Bepe worryingly observes his father. Dan looks up to see Sophia standing frowning alongside the four Teletubbies, all of them with arms crossed.
Again I am awoken by a frantic dream. Thursday started with a bang on my head, Friday starts with a gasp for air. I am dreaming so vividly but it is not hard to understand why. Bepe looms large in every thought. At the moment I feel so close to him, we are apart.
The room smells rank from my unwashed brother Chris. I look over to see his naked bottom exposed by a single sheet. We never did lower that heating and it is raging again now. I see the half-eaten remains of a McDonalds burger on the cabinet, witness to our hunger on the way home from the bar last night. Robert continued his weekend of my embarrassment by offering me the sexual services of his new partner's friend. I could not tell if they were paid for their services. He looked so camp as he swung his paper burger bag at me and stormed out with a lady on each arm. Why did Juliet leave so early? Why did we all let her leave alone?
I shower with vigour to wash off some of the negativity of the first two days here. I dress eagerly today, in anticipation of enjoying today on the snow. My guitar case is still bulging with the extra clothes I brought, even after I have selected my favourite corduroy shirt to inelegantly accompany my sweaty salopettes.
I open the balcony door handle with an inelegant clunk, but it doesn't wake the reeking Chris; I pray he washes today. This is another chance to further Bepe's list. Further noise accompanies my repositioning of the heavy wooden balcony chair. I am overlooking the railway bridge I called home from last night. With the mystique of the mist removed, I can now see that the second Chamonix train station serves a tram with red carriages that winds up the mountainside. A fresh coolness descends from upon high; today's weather has yet to come over the mountain.
As I flick through the list again I feel liberated and restricted. Liberated to make some positive choices but restricted that these seven are to stand for a life spent listening. Will they collectively mean anything? Will they feel like the spine of my life when they are chosen?
Number 5 “This Charming Man” by the Smiths.
Morrissey seemingly asks on behalf of both of us if nature will make men of us. His apparent bashfulness always made me feel comparatively strong; reminding me that I did have some good qualities, whatever they were. This was my signature tune for the decade, the heavily rotated soundtrack to my first real job, as a copy checker at the
Chester Chronicle
. Max knew someone high up there so got me an interview. Life seemed to be taking shape again on my terms after London and this happy-go-lucky tune fitted perfectly. The lyrics resonated with my previously troubled northern soul.
I had come back north with my tail between my legs. It was as if London just spat me out. My college friends were now scattered back across the country. Having been rejected from numerous jobs in London, I could not live on the state and have a life. In contrast I loved the small city mentality and youthful optimism of Chester, all played out under its Roman walls. It seemed a warming antidote to the harshness of the big city. Why didn't Morrissey have a stitch to wear though? I never understood what he meant about returning the rings; I always assumed that it would just make sense to me one day but it never has. I do hope Bepe and I can live a life of being interested in each other's music. Don't judge your dad's taste too harshly when you listen to them in years to come Bepe; I was a child of my time.